Echoes From the Past
by WayWardWonderer
Summary: Dr. John Watson has been shot! Now a dedicated Sherlock Holmes must find the 'would-be assassin' who is responsible and discover why the attempt on Watson's life was even made. But dark memories from the past have a lingering effect on both the good doctor and dedicated detective, long after the physical wounds have healed. A bleak past scars the present for both men.


It had been two weeks since the world's greatest detective, Sherlock Holmes, had been stricken ill by a poisoned blade, only to be nursed back to health by his closest friend and most trusted colleague, Dr. John Watson. Much to the doctor's dismay, at the time of Holmes injury, their landlady, Mrs. Hudson, had been on holiday. Watson had to tend to Holmes alone, exhausting every fiber of his being, seeing as Holmes could easily be the world's most brilliant mind, could equally be the world's most difficult patient.

Almost as a cruel joke, Holmes and Watson had received a telegram from Mrs. Hudson the morning before their current case was presented, stating that she would remain with her sister for at least another month. Apparently she had her own illnesses to tend to as well. Of course the men understood her situation and wished her nothing but the best.

Back in prime health, or as healthy as Sherlock Holmes has ever been under Dr. Watson's care, the revived detective was anxious to resume his passion of solving the unsolvable; placing the lost pieces of the blood stained puzzle from the world back together.

"Come now Watson, we mustn't keep Detective Lestrade waiting."

Holmes was standing at the front door of the flat on 221b Baker Street. He eagerly awaited for the good doctor to join him downstairs, his thick black coat already pulled on covering his slender frame and his smoking pipe casually hanging between his clenched teeth. The smoke swirled about the man's head, like a cloud encircling a wise oak tree.

"Seeing as we received no word from Lestrade directly, I highly doubt he will be expecting us. Why bother to hurry, if leave at all?"

"Why bother?" Holmes scoffed at Watson's remark. "Crime waits for no man, mysteries do not answer themselves and puzzles most certainly never piece themselves whole again. It is our civic duty to do these very tasks which would otherwise remain un-done. _That's_ why!"

"All right Holmes, I'll be down soon enough." It was clear from his voice that Watson still wasn't in any hurry.

Watson was less than enthusiastic about Holmes returning to the dangerous streets so quickly after his near-death, merely a fortnight ago. Slowly, Watson walked down the stairs, the limp in his leg more pronounced than usual. Seeing Holmes so ill, so weak and dying before Watson's very eyes had allowed recurring nightmares of the war from Afghanistan to haunt his dreams for the same two weeks that Holmes had easily, yet fitfully, rested through.

Being on a physical sabbatical for so long allowed Holmes to seemingly store up and unusual amount of energy. Rather than focusing his energy on recovering and improving his overall health, Holmes chose to put himself back on the unforgiving streets of London. It was evident from the moment Holmes left his chambers that this decision to get back to the job would be more harmful to Watson, than to Holmes himself.

"Ready old boy?" Watson had reached the bottom of the stairs, his gray coat on as well. The walking cane that he had managed to leave behind for an extended period of time was clenched in his right fist. He leaned heavily on his crutch, worn away by the years of running down dark alleyways and through the most unforgiving terrain, chasing after both the criminals and Holmes alike.

"Ready as ever. Let us be off." Holmes placed his spent pipe on the table near the door, though the distinct aroma of his rather pungent tobacco clung to his attire.

Walking side by side, Holmes and Watson made their way to the local precinct. Holmes walked at brisk pace, while Watson followed a few paces behind. Every other step was accompanied by the recognizable 'clicking' of the walking cane.

Though Lestrade had not personally summoned either Holmes or Watson, it was not uncommon for Holmes to place himself in the middle of case. By doing so, Holmes more often that not pulled the entire case apart and meticulously analyzed each detail, which of course greatly assisted in the closing of the case but it also wore away what little patience that either Watson or Lestrade had for Holmes' quirks.

The streets were crowded as per usual, people were talking and shoving by one another scarcely making eye contact. Both men were lost in thought:

Holmes only saw the crowd as a large number of "person's of interest." As the faces passed by Holmes, made mental notes of each one: _'Blue eyes. Blonde hair. Dimples…_' Not a single person seemed to notice or care about Holmes' piercing gaze memorizing their features, their habits or their very existence. Merely puzzle pieces given human form.

Personally Watson found the lack of basic human interaction, whether it be a innocent smile or gracious 'thank you' and 'please' disheartening. The nightmares he suffered through night after night had caused Watson to adopt a more bleak outlook at the society that surrounded him. It frightened him a little knowing that Holmes' outlook was eerily similar. Watson tried to push the notion out his mind, instead he attempted to look for the smallest glimmer of humble humanity on the overbearing, bustling street.

As the two men blended in with the rest of the crowd, the rhythmic tapping of Watson's cane on the stone walk was all that isolated the pair of friends from the mass of blank faces in the swarming throng on the street.

"It never ceases to amaze me, Watson."

Watson was unaware that Holmes was addressing him and Holmes was unaware that Watson was not listening. He continued speaking his observations even with no ear to listen.

"Every day the same people argue and shove about the most trivial of circumstances, while being completely blinded and deafened to all the wondrous gifts that have been given without the effort to attain them."

Still not listening.

"These people manage to wake up and have the choice to live their lives as they see fit. And yet, they choose to focus only on the negative. Let me ask you this Watson; is there anything more superfluous, anything more asinine, than the ungrateful, unappreciative masses that plague our streets?"

Watson eyes were locked onto nothingness in the distance, his mind unaware of where his legs were taking him.

Holmes became suspicious of Watson's silent demeanor.

"Watson? Watson, are you there Watson?" Holmes placed his hand on the distracted doctor's shoulder.

"What? What did you say? I'm sorry Holmes, I was… distracted."

The two men stopped on the street, their halt obstructed the flow of 'human traffic' but they did not budge from their place.

"Obviously. Do tell me Watson, what is on your mind? It's very unlike you to be oblivious to your surroundings, let alone a person who is speaking directly to you."

"My apologies Holmes, I have not been sleeping well lately. I suppose the fatigue has temporarily clouded my focus."

It was clear in Holmes' eyes that he wished to speak in an analytical fashion, but in order to reassure his friends seemingly, dwindling confidence, he elected to hold his tongue. For the moment.

"Indeed. Well Watson, please do clear away the clouds, I must challenge myself to determine whether my skills had diminished during that ghastly two weeks on my back. If I lose step, I want you to correct me immediately. Can I count on you for this?"

"Yes, yes. Of course." Watson was a little stunned. Holmes had rarely been so humble or willing to give Watson any form of compliment to his own deductive skills, let alone acknowledge his reliance on Watson's opinions.

"I apologize again. I promise you, I will put all my effort into whatever case maybe at hand."

"Good to hear. Shall we continue on?"

"Yes, let's be off again."

It was difficult for Holmes to stave off the urge to reveal his earlier deductions of Watson's insomnia. With little medical knowledge, Holmes could only begin to imagine the dire challenge that Watson had endured during his own time of illness. It was very clear to anyone who saw Watson's face, they could see that the man had not slept in some time. But only those who spent time with Watson would know that the 'pseudosematic limp' intensifies only during times of great stress, either physical or emotion, for the doctor.

At this point, Watson seemed ready to start dragging his 'bad leg' rather than using it to carry his weight. Holmes managed to still his silver tongue, though it ached his reenergized mind to do so, only be arriving at their destination was Holmes able to push the desire to analyze Watson out of his immediate focus.

The arrival of the long missed detective caused a mild uproar behind the precinct walls. Word had spread quickly of Holmes being poisoned, the final act of the "Back-Alley Butcher". It was also wide spread that every soul who fell victim to the 'Butchers' blades never recovered. To everyone's relief and surprise, the intrepid detective lived on. This 'miraculous' recovery was quickly rumored to be the work of a mad genius or doctor who kept many other cures private. How the very of idea of being seen as a 'mad doctor' made Watson cringe with angst.

"Well as I live and breathe, Sherlock Holmes. Back from the dead." Lestrade respectfully approached the duo to address them properly.

"Indeed. Glad to be back, I find that the prospect of 'death' to be quite unoriginal and non-stimulating."

Lestrade chuckled. "It does not surprise me in the least that the good doctor Watson has not lost his touch."

Watson nodded, acknowledging the compliment.

"But I take it that you two did not choose to visit and simply chat."

"Quite." Holmes glanced about the busy precinct. "It seems you are on the trail of gunman, where did you see him last."

"Our latest report places…" Lestrade stopped mid-sentence. "How did you know we were after a gunman?"

"I will explain my deduction shortly, only _after_ I have all the facts. I wish to have all the pieces in place before I announce the solution, if you don't mind.

Lestrade handed the current case file to Holmes. "Since I apparently don't have to update you on our current status, would you care to accompany us? Our intelligence reports that the suspected gunman was recently spotted in an abandoned flat in a back alley, just the East of the warehouses."

"You will be taking a squadron of your most qualified officers to surround the building and flush out the suspect I assume. Therefore Watson and I shall accompany you, we mustn't leave any detail forgotten, surely in the chaos of an ambush, many details and crucial clues, of not all of them, will be lost."

Holmes glanced over at his colleague and again, Watson seemed to be in a fog.

"Watson?"

"Yes Holmes?" Watson responded quickly, blinking rapidly as he fixed his eyes upon the detective.

"Would you care to join us on this little excursion?"

Watson nodded in agreement, though he was reluctant. He drifted in and out of reality, only catching bits and pieces of Holmes and Lestrade's conversation. To risk an encounter with a gunman was not a prime decision, but he knew even if he chose not to go, Holmes would.

A small squadron of armed police escorts surrounded the building in question. Deep inside, Holmes could hear the panicking footsteps of their suspect as he scrambled about the darkened flat. The building was four-stories, eroded gray stones for the face, a rusted and dented metallic door at the front. Each window was broken, all but two were crudely boarded up.

Lestrade positioned his men on all four sides of the building. His plan in motion, he took his place near the center to make his commands.

"On my word; we shall storm the entry and stop the cut off the suspect's retreat-"

Bullets began to rain down on the detectives who were exposed on the street below. From a window above, the gunman opened fire in a desperate attempt to distract the authorities and allow him adequate time to flee.

"Get down! Get down! Find cover, quickly!" Lestrade commanded in a voice of discipline, not panic.

Lestrade barked out the orders, attempting to keep control of the chaos and keep his men out of harm's way.

All officers, excluding Lestrade himself, ran from the alley and took shelter behind the brick corners of the surrounding warehouses. Lestrade and Holmes had ducked down behind several large wooden shipping crates which were at most 10ft from the building front.

"Any suggestions detective?" Lestrade kept his head low, with revolver in hand and cocked.

"Just one." Holmes put his own pistol away at his side, then crouched low.

"What in God's name are you doing?"

"Distraction." Holmes bolted out from behind the crates and toward the doorway to the villain's lair.

Just as Holmes had planned, the gunman changed his focus toward Holmes and off the streets, and opened fire! A moving target was much more difficult to hit than a stationary one. Holmes used his agility to avoid all contact with the lethal projectiles.

His attention off Lestrade, the gunman left himself exposed to a clean shot. Lestrade saw his opportunity and took aim. Perfect shot. The bullet echoed loudly in the air as it struck the gunman in the left temple. His body went limp and fell backward onto the floor of the warehouse.

Silence.

"Good show Holmes." Lestrade approached the bold detective as he placed his revolver back into its holster. "Now, would please care to explain how you knew about the gunman?"

Holmes was not listening, he was obviously distracted looking past Lestrade into the alleyway. There was a looking his eyes that Lestrade had never seen before: Fear.

"Holmes? Are you all right?"

Holmes pushed Lestrade aside and dashed down the alley, sliding to a stop on his knee next to the crumpled form of a man. He turned the man over from his face, onto his side.

"Watson?"

Lestrade's heart sank as he focused in on the same horror Holmes had discovered. "Dear God…"

"Watson? Do you hear me?" Holmes gently patted at the unconscious man's face, but there was no response. Watson's body remained still. It was after Holmes pulled his arm away that he saw the blood smeared on the palm of his hand.

But Holmes was not injured, it was not his blood.

Carefully, Holes rolled Watson onto his back, then he tilted Watson's head to the side. A patch of blood was beginning to blossom from a wound just above the doctor's brow.

Watson had been shot.

"Watson? Watson!" Holmes pulled a white handkerchief from his coat pocket and pressed it into the wound, the white fabric quickly staining red with his best friends blood.

"Can you hear me? Watson? Dr. John Hamish Watson, please answer me."

Silence. The doctor remained quiet, his own blood pooling beneath his head.

Holmes felt his heart sink, never before had he seen his dear friend so helpless, so lifeless.

_What happened? Why did it happen? Who was responsible? What can he do? What could he do, he was not a doctor…_

Holmes' mind was racing, fueled by a mixture of panic and fear. A concoction that did not sit well with the detective. He breathed in heavily, focusing his thoughts on how best to assist Watson.

"Lestrade, I need a carriage with fast horses."

Without hesitating, Lestrade ordered his men to fetch the fastest carriage in the area.

Holmes stared blankly at the blood that was covering Watson's face and now his own hand as he continued to apply pressure to the wound. Unsure of what else to be done at the moment, he cradled Watson's unconscious head in his arms. Never before had Holmes felt to utterly useless.

The carriage pulled up next to where Holmes knelt, grinding to a halt. With assistance from Lestrade, Holmes lifted Watson up over his shoulder and laid the injured man down on the seat in the carriage. Once inside, Holmes jumped in and slammed the door shut behind him.

"221 Baker Street, now!" Holmes did not yell but did speak in a dominant voice.

"Sir?"

"You heard me, get those horses moving!"

"Yes, sir. But wouldn't a hospital-"

"No. Now move!"

"Yes, sir!"

A crack of the whip caused the horses to tote the carriage back to Baker Street, a second whip crack coaxed the majestic beasts to increase their pace, while the third crack pushed the horses into a full gallop. The sound of the pounding hooves echoed wildly in the alley and soon the street, the carriage wheels creaking in protest at the speed through which they were being forced.

Holmes resumed cradling Watson's head. With a knot in his stomach, he lifted away the handkerchief to examine the wound. To his immediate relief he could see that the bullet had not penetrated Watson's skull, merely graze the skin. But even then, there could still be severe damage that could not be seen on the surface.

"_The force of the passing bullet could've ruptured vessels beneath his skin… Or bruised his brain… Or dislocated- No stop… Not now._"

Holmes had to fight his own mind to keep such dark realities from destroying his focus on Watson. He was the only one who could help him, the only one who could focus all his energy toward aiding Watson's recovery.

The carriage came to a jerking stop outside the flat on Baker Street.

Holmes threw open the carriage door with one hand, while keeping the pressure on the wound with the other. He struggled to get out of the carriage in a manner that would not aggravate Watson's condition. Finding a proper position to lift Watson up, Holmes placed his arms beneath Watson's then wrapped his hands around Watson's chest and pulled the limp man back and out of the carriage, his head lolled lifelessly onto Holmes shoulder. The blood stained Holmes dark coat, and part of his neck and face. Holmes did his best to not let the atrocity of being covered in his friends blood further affect his judgment.

The carriage driver tried to assist with moving Watson inside, but Holmes would not allow anyone to go near his incapacitated friend.

Out of his pure stubborn mannerism, Holmes half carried and half dragged Watson into the flat, barely making inside the doorway. With on hand holding Watson upright, he locked the door behind him. Using a gentle but firm grip, Holmes pulled Watson's limp arm around his neck and shoulders, then picked up Watson's dead-weight legs. Steadily Holmes carried Watson up the stairs and into Watson's personal bedroom.

With all the care that the cold detective could muster, Holmes sat his unconscious friend down on the bed. He careful to not let Watson's head be jostled. Holmes guiding Watson as he laid him down on his back onto the bed. Holmes placed a quilt over the doctor to keep him warm before reapplying pressure the still bleeding wound.

Far from medically savvy, Holmes did his best with what he could.

Luckily Watson is an excellent physician and consistently keeps a well stocked supply of medical equipment; bandages, wraps, compresses, gauze, surgical instruments and a wide array of medications, in his possession at all time.

Holmes retrieved, then opened the doctor's medical bag and began to pull out the contents, spreading them on the bed along Watson's side. He stared at the devices as if they came from another planet. Then guilt racked his taxed brain.

"Infection."

Watson had tried on many occasions to teach Holmes basic medical procedures but Holmes would not listen. Why learn when he had a doctor as his right hand? How foolish he felt for not heeding his friend's request. However, it was common knowledge that if a wound was not properly tended to: cleaned and bandaged, an infection was imminent.

While Holmes went downstairs to fetch some warm, clean water, and fresh towels, Watson had briefly regained consciousness. He awoke just long enough to find himself no longer in the alleyway, and found himself alone. As quickly as he had woken up, Watson drifted off to sleep. Back into another of his nightmares.

Watson found himself back in Afghanistan, surrounded by chaos and death: soldiers, who were once men, some still boys, were bleeding in every direction Watson looked. Many were dismembered, their limbs torn from their sockets. Faces were burned, scarred or gone. Hollow eyes, full of fear and anger and sorrow stared at Watson while their forever silenced voices cried out for help. The nightmares were too real. The horrors of war that Watson had personally encountered had left its mark on his psyche. It seemed no matter how many lives he saved, just as many were lost.

Holmes returned to Watson's bedside only to find his friend fitfully sleeping. His eyes darted back and forth beneath his heavily closed lids, while his shallow voice seemed to beg for mercy.

Unsure if Watson was suffering a hallucination caused by an internal injury to his brain or a delirium brought on by a fever though an infection, Holmes immediately began to cleanse the wound.

A basin of warm, clean water was placed on the table next to Watson's bed while Holmes quickly washed away the dirt and debris from the laceration. The bleeding was slower but still steady, surely Watson would begin to suffer the ill effects of massive blood loss.

As Holmes addressed the injury, he realized that though the bullet only grazed Watson's brow, the bullet itself could be identified by the unique indentation, length and shape of the wound that was left behind. The bullet had also left a residue from its material behind, buried in the skin. Holmes wiped away the blood and uncovered the debris. Small black flakes stood out against the red blood on the white cloth. This projectile had not been fired from the gunman's weapon.

Anger creased Holmes' face. He bundled the fabric into a small ball and placed it in his coat pocket, before continuing his attendance to Watson.

Using the clean medical bandages, Holmes covered the wound and used the gauze to wrap the bandage in place.

With nothing more to do for his friend, Holmes placed each foreign object back into the medical bag, then tossed it into the corner.

Holmes sat at the foot of the bed and just stared at Watson. The doctor was helpless, weak and battling a nemesis seen only by his mind's eye. What could Holmes possibly do?

"Watson." Holmes folded his arms in front of his chest. "I swear to you, I will pull you through the darkness that has trapped your mind. Just as you pulled me through mine. I swear it. Do you hear me?"

Hesitantly, Holmes rose from the bed and walked toward the open door.

"But for now, I must leave you. I promise that I will return, you will not fight this darkness alone. At the moment, all I can do for you is grant you the justice you so greatly deserve, my old friend."

Without knowing Holmes was ever there, Watson remained trapped in his hallucination.

Holmes left the flat moving at a relatively quick pace. He weaved through the thick crowd of jaded people on the street. His only thought, his only focus, was getting to the precinct and informing Lestrade of the unfortunate circumstances that Holmes had uncovered.

The door to the precinct was unlocked, Holmes barged inside.

"Lestrade?" Holmes voice was stern. "Lestrade, where are you?"

Every face in the room had turned toward Holmes as he stood alone in the center of the office. His tall stature easy overshadowed all other patrons of the precinct, while his black coat gave the impression of a messenger of doom.

"Lestrade, come forthwith, I have uncovered something dire to which you must be made aware."

"Holmes?" Lestrade appeared around the corner, exiting his personal quarters.

"What is it Holmes? What did you find."

"A conspiracy, Lestrade."

With a single word, Holmes brought utter silence upon the curious mass of on-lookers.

"What? Conspiracy?" Lestrade stopped in his tracks, dumbfounded by the very notion. "Where?"

"Here, in this very precinct."

"Surely you jest!"

"I never joke about my work, detective."

"So I've noticed…" Lestrade walked toward Holmes, now the second person of interest in the room. "Well, do tell."

"Gladly."

Holmes stood up straight, folding his arms behind his back, like a general overlooking his troops. He eyes every person in the room, taking in every detail of their body language, poster, emotion and overall aesthetic. With a strong hand, Holmes reached into his pocket and pulled out the bloody handkerchief and held it high for all to see.

"Tonight, a man's life was nearly ended. Tonight, a man who should be dead, still lives on, though I do not see for how much longer. And tonight, that man was Dr. John Watson."

"What?" Lestrade was nearly stammering with disbelief. "Are you saying that someone purposely shot Watson?"

"Indeed."

"But… How could you possibly know?"

Holmes smirked devilishly, he so enjoyed displaying his gift of observation and deduction to all who would hear him.

"It seems your overall force has increased by six additional men during my absence. Despite the additional men there are no additional desks for these men to work, therefore they are on temporary transfer from a neighboring precinct."

Holmes locked his hands behind his back again as he turned and focused his attention on the latest additions to the force. The six men in question were standing as a group near the far wall.

"These 'new' men are only intermingling with each other, not with any officer that has been part of the force for an extended period time, thus they have already been introduced to, and are comfortable with each other only. Also, these men carry alternate pistols compared to your own men's standard issue, and that of the now deceased gunman. As well, their badges being gold plated and not pure gold."

"I see." Lestrade was never unimpressed by Holmes' reasoning. "And the handkerchief? How does that tie into any conspiracy?"

"While tending to my injured colleague, I discovered a distinct black residue that had rubbed off the exterior of the bullet as it impacted Watson's skull. These black flakes are the tell-tale sign of the very bullet which was fired."

"So you know the shooter's identity?"

"Correct."

"And you know that the bullet was not from the gunman?"

"Correct again."

The six officers near the wall looked at each other bewildered. The veteran officer's of the precinct simply marveled at Holmes' deductive reasoning.

"But, how can you be sure the shot was intentionally aimed at Watson, and not a stray bullet that nearly found a new mark?"

"The angle of the would indicates that the shooter had pointed his weapon directly at Watson as he pulled the trigger, but only due to pure luck, Watson stepped back and turned his head to avoid the gunman's barrage of bullets from above. Instead of penetrating Watson's skull, surely killing him with the bullet, it instead grazed his head rendering him unconscious."

"If what you say it true, and Watson was left unconscious and helpless, why didn't the 'would-be assassin' seize the moment to finish him off?"

"A single shot could easily be misconstrued as an accident, and Watson's death would be rules as such. But two shots would be a clear indicator that someone had intended to kill the doctor, and the search for the murderer would begin too quickly to allow the villain to escape of dispose of any evidence."

"By God Holmes… Your story is plausible, but surely you can't believe a man of the badge would murder an innocent man such as Dr. Watson?"

Holmes began to pace toward the six detectives, his arms still folded behind his back. As he approached the accused men, each one stood at attention and attempted to avoid eye contact.

"Lestrade, you know as well as I that Watson had an entirely different life before London. Despite a change of scenery, vendetta's never die."

"What are you saying, Holmes?"

Silence. Holmes was focused on the six officers. He paced slowly back and forth in front of the accused. Each man he passed he's quickly look up and down, gauging their reactions. He stopped in front of the first officer, staring into the man's brown eyes.

"What is your name, officer?"

He swallowed nervously. "James Montgomery, sir."

"How long have you been on the active police force?"

"12 years come this winter, sir."

"Have you ever opened fire on an innocent man?"

"No sir! I'd sooner shoot myself before I shot any civilian without warrant."

"Good man."

Holmes stepped to his left to face the second officer in line.

"Name?"

"Logan Chambers."

"Same questions, answer them honestly.

"I've been on the force for 9 years and I've never opened fire without cause."

"Indeed…"

Holmes moved to the third man.

"My name is Leonard Andre. I've been on the force for 7 years and I only opened fire near a group of civilians once."

"Why?"

"The suspect was fleeing and I needed to catch up. The sound of the gunshot forced everyone to scatter and I was able to catch my man."

"Commendable in pursuit of justice, condemnable in way of needlessly endangering lives."

"Yes, sir, I know. I was suspended-"

"-for two weeks, I know." Holmes interrupted and finished the explanation.

Holmes turned his gaze back toward the second officer. Chambers was beginning to sweat, he body quaking with fear.

Andre butted in. "How did you know…"

"Standard punishment for a first time offense, is it not?"

"Yes sir, it is."

"Now Chambers…" Holmes planted himself firmly before the upset officer. "When I asked about firing toward an innocent man, you denied it."

"Yes- Yes sir." His voice cracked with shame.

"But anyone who had read your file know this to be untrue."

Every officer in the room turned their eyes to Chambers, the man was turning red and sweating profusely.

"No! I swear I never-"

"No, not never. Not today. Today is the day that _you_ fired at an innocent man!"

Holmes grabbed Chambers by his shirt collar, using his strong arms Holmes pinned the shaking man against the wall and lifted him into the air.

"Holmes!" Lestrade rushed over and put both hands of Holmes' shoulders. "What are you doing?"

"This man is our assassin detective."

"Have you lost your bloody mind? Where's the proof?"

"The proof is in this man's holster. Look."

Lestrade let go of Holmes, more out of respect than anything else before reaching for Chambers' weapon. Though the gun was in his hands, Lestrade couldn't believe what he was holding.

"You see? This particular model of gun is used by military personnel only. Not one of standard police issue."

Lestrade looked Chamber's in the eyes, he was ashamed to have such a man under his command.

"You've proven 'who' Holmes, but not the 'why'."

"I believe Chambers will be able to explain himself."

Holmes lowered the man back to the floor, but not release his grip.

"I had to! You don't understand-"

"Then explain it to us, use 'small words' if need be." Holmes' voice was becoming coarse.

"My brother died in Afghanistan!"

Lestrade looked at Chambers with sympathy, but his confusion only increased.

"Chamber's, what does that have to do with Dr. Watson?"

"'_Doctor_'? What a lie!"

Holmes pressed Chamber's up hard against the wall a second time.

"Mind yourself…"

"Holmes… Ease up a bit."

"That supposed 'doctor' let my brother die! He was shot in the leg, he should've lived! But no, Dr. Watson just let him die!"

"Chambers, I am sorry for the loss of your brother," Lestrade was speaking in a lower voice. "But death is a part of war."

"So is life!" Chamber's voice cracked again as tears filled his eyes. "My brother would've come back me alive, if Watson had only done his job properly."

"You simple-minded twit." Holmes released his grip from Chamber's shirt. "Are you unfamiliar with a 'phenomenon' called '_infection_'?"

Both Chambers and Lestrade looked at Holmes, waiting for his more in-depth explanation.

"Though his wound was struck in a non-vital area, that does not mean infection could not set in."

"But he was a doctor! Why could he make my brother well again?"

"The stress of combat would have surely weakened your brother's body allowing the infection to thrive. Watson is a man with a medical education, not a 'god'."

Lestrade signaled for his seasoned officers to take Chamber's into custody. Holmes watched at the emotionally crippled man was lead away.

"One other thing Chambers: Did you ever consider that your brother had contracted an infection, _before_ he was shot?"

Chamber's stumbled to a stop. Never before did he think of his late brother's death as anything more than Watson's fault.

Lestrade placed a hand back on Holmes' shoulder.

"Well done, detective."

"Thank you, detective."

"How did you know that shooter was one of these six men?"

"Elementary. The suspected officers' badges contain a secondary emblem engraved above their original precincts' numeral. The emblem signifies addition knowledge and training in multiple firearms, both foreign and domestic."

"True enough, I suppose. But how did you single Chambers out?"

"His badge contained a slightly alternate emblem; his emblem is a sign of a veteran of war. The Afghanistan war to be exact. The very war that Watson had fought in all those years ago."

"So all these years, Chambers' had been holding onto his hate. When he recognized Dr. Watson during the ambush-"

"He saw an opportunity, yes."

"And the gun…"

"The very same gun that his late-brother carried into combat, no doubt. Luckily the bullet was constructed of now obsolete elements."

Lestrade smirked a little. Then asked the one question had an air of danger surrounding it. "What about Watson?"

"Still unconscious as we speak no doubt." Holmes turned toward the door. "Now that the case has been closed, I best be off."

"Very well, give my best to Watson."

"Will do."

Holmes began his journey back to back to Baker Street. Watson had been left alone in the flat, no one to look over him. With the day coming to a close, Holmes found it easier to maneuver down the street toward his destination. The sound of the crowd began to mute as Holmes' mind began to focus solely on the condition of his injured colleague, of whom had not received professional medical care.

Guilt weighed heavily on Holmes as stepped up the curb onto the sidewalk of Baker Street. Was it right for him to keep Watson away from a hospital, simply because of his own fear of losing his closest friend? Did he have the right to dictate how Watson was to be treated as a patient? Did Holmes even have the right to keep everyone who might be able to assist Watson away, out of a sense of independence and pride?

Perhaps. Perhaps not. The latter option seemed to be more prominent and haunting than the first.

Using his key to enter the flat, Holmes quietly but quickly walked up the stairs into the dark bedroom where Watson still laid.

Watson was still unconscious, however the wound had ceased bleeding. Holmes stood at the edge of the bed and watched his dear friend lay in a state one would only describe as 'near-death'. Sherlock Holmes was a consulting detective for the local precinct, he knew nothing of medicine or of tending to serious injuries. For the first time in many years, Holmes found himself without an answer to the question that presented itself to him. How can he help Watson?

The evening fell from the red sky as the bright moon filled the dark streets with its pure light. A beacon of wonder and hope, that shone brightly against an expanse of pure blackness.

Holmes sat in a chair near the foot of Watson's bed, silently. His fingers were laced together with his chin resting against them. His eyes were focused on nothing, but they were fixed in Watson's direction. The rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock near the foot of the stairs echoed loudly in the quiet, nearly empty flat. The tick had grown common, leaving Holmes unable to follow its pacing, the silence had becoming deafening and painful to the reclusive detective.

As if struck with electricity, Holmes rose to his feet and exited the room. He returned within a few moments with the violin and bow in his hands. Resuming his place at the foot of the bed, Holmes drew back the bow and filled the room with a symphony of sorrow that resonated abundantly throughout the dark flat.

Nearing dawn, Watson was slowly awoken to the melancholy song being sung by the strings of the familiar Stradivarius. Watson blinked his eyes several times, confused by the sudden change of his surroundings. He glanced about making out the familiar shapes of the furniture on his room: Obviously he was lying in the bed, the night table nearby, the armchair pulled closer, the bookshelves; but most intriguing of all was the outline of a tall person, standing at the foot of the bed, his body outlined by the candlelight glowing in from the hallway through the open door. His back toward Watson, his head lowered and his arms cradling the violin as it played.

However the sharp pain in his head quickly caught his attention. As his hand rose to check the sight of the pain, the voice of the violin suddenly muted.

"Good to see you, Watson."

"Holmes?" Watson let out a groan of pain as he forced himself to focus his blurred vision on the figure standing at the end of the bed.

"None other."

"Holmes?" Watson forced himself upward, using his elbows for balance. "What are you doing? What happened?"

"You need not concern yourself at the moment my dear doctor. You seem to be recovering rather impressively."

"Answer me Holmes. What happened?"

Holmes turned to look at Watson. He lowered the bow and violin to his side.

"A stray bullet."

The doctor's eyes widened as his hand felt for the wound. The soft fabric of the bandages confirmed the location but his hand recoil immediately as the pain intensified from his own touch.

"It merely grazed your brow, you were unconscious for seven hours and twenty-three minutes."

Holmes had pulled his pocket watch free to assure Watson of the precision of his comment. Watson was not amused; in fact the very notion that he had been injured so easily and unable to take care of himself shook him to his core.

"And how did I return to Baker Street."

"I brought you back. I then placed you here, in your room, tended to your wound and placed the foul shooter behind bars."

Watson laid back down, his head was pounding. The soft pillow gave little relief to the massive headache he would have to endure for the next few days.

"Who was it? Who was the shooter?"

Holmes looked away from Watson. "The savage gunman of course."

"Ah, yes, of course… of course."

The detective's heart had ached at the very question. He wished to be honest with his friend but in doing so, the truth may do more harm than good. Drudging up the past that continues to haunt the doctor could very well be enough to push him into a dark spiral of insanity. Holmes would not be able to bear the sight of someone he allowed himself to grow close to perish in such a manner.

"And what about you? Did you escape unharmed?"

"Yes, Watson. I am uninjured."

"That's good to know."

Watson's eyes began to close. It seemed the only method to escape the pain, was through sleep. _Sleep, a chance to dream._

"_Holmes."_

"_Yes, Watson?"_

"_It's good to see you, too."_

_Holmes turned his back toward Watson, rose the violin to his chin and drew back his bow once more. As he played; the rhythm changed and the mood of the room seemed to lighten. _

_Watson had learned many years ago that the wail of the strings was initially a sign of Holmes being lost in his thoughts. He long believed the ever changing tune was a beacon, a way to guide Holmes back into the real world. But now Watson knew the true purpose of the Stradivarius: The notes that emanated from strings of the violin was the only outlet Holmes could find acceptable to convey his emotions._

_Until dawn, Holmes remained by Watson's side, playing the violin as Watson slept peacefully, for the first time in two weeks._

_-The End_


End file.
